But they were old enough to start remembering you as mother, and we cannot have that. And he departed, just as Wood, who had become alarmed by Thames's long absence, made his appearance with a blunderbuss in his hand. We close the chapter. Even the love of a mother does not sway him. ‘I can’t do that. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear.
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